


Raining All the Time

by jendavis



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-08
Updated: 2010-11-08
Packaged: 2017-10-13 03:30:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/132354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jendavis/pseuds/jendavis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Several lovely people gave me several lovely prompts, and I used them all:  Stuck in a cave with nothing to do, Wormhole X-treme, the Pegasus version, a wardrobe malfunction of the towel variety, a secret relationship revealed, or possibly kept a secret, arts and crafts, War & Peace, shaving, getting drugged by villagers into cuddling. And it rains a lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Raining All the Time

  
_John has never killed so many people in a single day. But the rain presses on, regardless, and he doesn't have the time to stop and think about it, anyway. Not with a tsunami heading their way, less than a minute out._

And then it's over, washing over them. Leaving them alive. Weir's in shock, McKay's bleeding, Teyla is furious and Ford…well. He's Ford. John doesn't begin to know how he himself is doing, but it can wait. Sora's standing there like she's expecting to be executed, and there are too many bodies that need seeing to, and the Genii made it out of there with who-knows-what, but.

Atlantis is still here. And there's work to be done.  
  
\---

It was raining when his team and Lorne's returned from Belkan, and according to the sensors, it was only going to get worse. But right then, it was the furthest thing from John's mind.

Getting his right wrist looked at, on the other hand, that was a different story, and he made his way towards the infirmary without having to be ordered first. It was stupid, he'd stepped wrong on the trail coming back to the gate, and had to admit to the others that the aftereffects of last night's sealing-the-trade-deal ceremony were affecting his concentration.

Because it was easier admitting to the alcohol than it was admitting what the alcohol had made him do. Let him do. _Made_ him do.

Cadman promised she'd never tell a soul, but there was a smirk hanging at the edges of her mouth, sure to break free the moment John's back was turned.

And now, he was giving it the chance, and he knew it, but he really needed to get his wrist looked at.

And maybe something for the headache, as well.

\---

 _Ronon's been ill for weeks now, enough that the rain feels good slicking down over his fever-heated skin, soaking in through his matted hair to cool his scalp. It feels like waking up, like he's regaining some sanity, a little more control, but it's not enough to stop himself from stepping wrong._

He's still mad enough that he doesn't realize the mudslide could kill him. Just feels the movement and enjoys the ride down. Forgets everything else for a moment and laughs at the thrill of it all.

\---

The scientists were running a movie marathon in the common room. Ronon arrived in time to catch the beginning of something called _WX: Triangulum_ , and wound up sitting there for two hours, staring at the screen in amused horror.

Dr. Ryan McCullough was the most annoying character on the show, but the others weren't much better. At one point, the dimwit playing Lt. Col. James Shepherd managed to hit on John's drawl, out of blind luck more than anything, and Ronon turned to point it out to John, who still wasn't sitting next to him.

Apparently there were two more episodes left, but Ronon wasn't interested any more.

\---

 _It rains the day he gets back from Afghanistan, and Nancy can't pull him into their house for anything. He stands in the driveway, face held up to the sky, not even wanting to squint against the raindrops._

He just wants to stay there for a minute, remember where he is. He doesn't mean for it to become the opening salvo in the fight that ends them.

\---

There wasn't anything to see outside his window except rain, and John was on stand-down with a fractured wrist and a head full of painkillers. He was out of excuses not to fight through more of _War and Peace._

He was reading about the death of Prince Bolkonsky for the third or fourth time. He couldn't remember what Bolkonsky was doing before that, though. Something about the French, he was almost positive. John tossed the book aside.

This was stupid. He needed to get out of there, but flying was out, and thanks to McKay's Genii-induced electrical systems paranoia, so was the gate.

Besides, he couldn't stay cooped up in his room forever. At some point, he'd have to go out and face it. "What happens on missions, stays on missions," was a great motto, but it had never been true. Hiding out was only going to make people wonder about his state of mind, and then leap to whatever conclusions they saw fit. The trading feast at Belkan, and John's naked need laid out for all to see. Ronon's reaction.

There had to be something he could do, somewhere, to move things back towards normal.  
\---

 _He finds shelter in a small deep cave, right before the sky opens. Lies on the floor to look back out over the area below, but the wraith aren't coming. Not yet. There's no way he's lost them, though. They're just waiting. They're patient because they know they have the advantage._

But they don't seem to like the rain any more than Ronon does. It's not the first thing he learns about the wraith, but it's the first thing they have in common, apparently.

He knows he should get moving, but the rain's making the trees look stunningly green, and all he wants to do, for a while, is look. Catch his breath and sit in his cave, doing nothing. Rest, just for a moment.

\---

Storms, here, didn't mean what they did once upon a time. There was no cramping in on yourself in a vain attempt to keep dry, hoping the cough that appeared that morning doesn't worsen. Here, there was shelter. Here, there were shields, and dampeners, and more than enough grounding. There was all the technology the ZPM could handle, even if it couldn't manage to handle the people.

Ronon had heard about the few cases of vertigo, of seasickness, but had to concentrate to feel the city moving slightly beneath him as he walked through its corridors towards the jumper bay. Even then, he wasn't sure he wasn't imagining it.

All the same, though. John had never looked more aware of the floor beneath his feet, walking around with a dead-numb expression on his face, but sometimes the tension pulled at the corner of his mouth.

He'd been spending a lot of time in the jumper bay, and that's where Ronon found him, tweaking controls with his uninjured hand and overseeing adjustments that didn't need to be made. He looked out at the rain, more than he looked at Ronon, watching the lightning strike across the sky like it might be worth the risk. He'd bolt, given the chance, and fly out into the storm.

It wasn't surprising, but he wished he knew if it was the city John was trying to escape, or Ronon.

He couldn't bring himself to ask though, just left the bay first, so John wouldn't have to.  
\---

 _The extraction went as planned, and they've made it out of Kabul, and now there's nothing left to worry about besides being seen. So John flies low, keeps under the radar and over the contours of the terrain below._

He can't see it, though. Not from here. It's the middle of the night, and the rain is surprisingly torrential as it washes over the windshield. But it won't last long. It never does, not even in spring.

And it doesn't matter. Between radar, GPS, forward looking infrared, and inertial navigation, the windshield may as well be obsolete. For now, the Pave's eyes are his eyes, and John knows there's no flying machine out there that he'd trust half as much.

Looks out at the rain crashing against the windshield and grins. They're almost home, and in a minute or so, he'll be able to call and report in. Everyone's made it. Everyone's safe.

\---

They hadn't spoken since parting ways in the gate room, back when the rain was a novelty. If asked, John would say it was because there wasn't much interest to be found in talking about the weather.

He knew better, though. Ronon knew the deal, John had explained it to him, and John had messed that up. Shoved his naked need at him and changed the rules on him, out in front of everyone. Left him wide open, too, even though he'd been less than an arm's length away for the better part of an evening.

Far less, truth be told, and in an ideal world, he would have enjoyed the chance to lean into Ronon, touch him like he wanted. Like he'd done that night, around the fire as the Marines looked on. Ronon's skin had been hot and dry enough that John could have left marks by running a fingernail up his forearm. If he'd wanted to.

And John had wanted to. But Ronon hadn't let him, had moved to sit next to Teyla for the rest of the night. He'd looked back across the flames every so often, keeping an eye on him like he would an animal he didn't trust anymore.

Like he'd been afraid that John would ruin everything, throwing everything away like that.

\---

 _There's a fire on the east side of town, caused by the lightning that presaged the storm. The council's up in arms, because the Chieftain declared it an emergency, even though no wraith have been seen. But the Chieftain is the only one who can delegate to the taskmasters, and the taskmasters are the only ones who can get the sleep-deprived soldiers out to haul hoses through the downpour, because there's not enough water coming down from the sky to put the fire out._

Ronon thinks it's funny, but he keeps it far from his face. The innkeeper's husband is standing right there, staring as his livelihood goes up in smoking flames, and Ronon figures he should be getting some perspective about all of this. That it's important. But it's the middle of the night, he really wants sleep, and all he has are his orders.  
  
\---

Cadman moved over, making space so Lorne could deal him in, but Ronon didn't have time to ante up before he was hearing about his _boyfriend John._

Lorne was joking, and since the others were laughing, Ronon joined in. Because at the moment, he wasn't really sure that there was any truth to it, anyway. Thankfully, by the end of the first hand, the conversation had shifted towards the basket weaving class Teyla had started in the mess hall.

Apparently Parrish was beginning to get the hang of it, but Katie Brown was amazing.

Ronon tried to count cards the way McKay had shown him, though, and if it didn't work to distract himself the way he'd hoped, at least everyone else was thrown. He walked out of there with three more bills, and a handful of coins. Useless currency.

John was supposed to be walking next to him, holding them up to the light to show the watermark, telling Ronon about places he'd never see.

John was supposed to be there.

\---

 _For all that comes afterwards, the rain at the wedding reception is nice. Seems to wash enough of the starch out of people's clothes that they're able to move. Or maybe it's too hard to look snooty when your hair's plastered to your skull, but people are finally relaxing. The open bar probably doesn't hurt, either._

It's been pouring like this since Nancy said "I do," and Dave's already joking that it's an omen. John's new mother in law scowls at the sky like she can cow it into behaving for her daughter's wedding. But Nancy doesn't care.

She even lets him drag her out to dance in the mud.

\---

John tugged the plastic over his cast, his clumsy left hand managing to tape it down to keep the water out. The shower itself took longer than he wanted it to, but he managed. It was merely a matter of letting the water fall over him, and if he closed his eyes and ignored the warmth, he could almost imagine himself standing outside, letting the sky fall onto him.

Slinging the towel around his hips, he wrapped himself against the humid chill of the bathroom, glancing in annoyance at Ancient mirrors that didn't fog up when they were supposed to. There was no detail lost to steam on the polished steel surface, and it showed his reflection too clearly.

It showed him naked and alone, and as washed out as the view outside. For all the care they'd taken to seal the city, the rain was finding a way in. Some of the gray was literal, in the stubble grown long enough to show.

 _Need a shave._ It was a strange strategy to have to make, gauging the angles needed to approach from the left rather than the right. He never even got around to lathering his face before he sensed movement in the mirror.

Ronon wasn't looking at him yet, but he was looking at his reflection. At his hands, mostly. One holding the razor awkwardly, the other just useless.

John didn't turn, but he didn't move when Ronon came close. Just waited for the next moment to arrive.

\---

 _Ronon's bored out of his mind, glaring out the open window, listening to his parents argue politics downstairs._

The wind changes, sending a light spray of rain over his unfinished homework. Half thinking, he swipes a sleeve over the words, but the ink doesn't run, and his report on the identification of poisonous plants remains annoyingly unmarred. Would have served the schoolman right, assigning such a pointless project. Like anyone foraged for food anywhere other than the market.

It's his first day free from parentally ordered house arrest, and it's raining too hard to enjoy it. Ronon's not sure he's going to remember anything about the plants in a week, but he knows everything there is to know about injustice.

\---

John didn't look like he'd admit to wanting him there, so he didn't give him the option.

Ronon took the razor out of John's hand and set it on the counter, before picking up the shaving lotion and lathering it up over John's face, the way he'd done before. Brushed a knuckle under John's chin to get him to tilt his head, all too aware that he was forcing him to expose his throat.

But John was looking at him now, and letting him look back.

Ronon was a little stunned, maybe a little in awe, because even after days of nothing, of not knowing, of looking out and in at nothing, John was allowing him this. Letting him hold a blade to his throat. Trusting him.

One of them, at some point, would have to start talking, but not yet. It would only lead to cutting too close, drawing blood, and it would end with John flinching away.

\---

 _The pressure doesn't ease up when the tension changes, and the rain doesn't stop when they kiss._

In a while, there will be bed and blankets and skin against skin, and the momentary stutter and stop when John's cast accidentally clocks Ronon upside the head. Laughter, then, and bodies resettling into one another.

But for the moment, there's only the brush of warm lips, and hands tentative against shoulders. A towel starts to slip from chilled hips, and when it goes, it leaves behind only the safe kind of naked.  
  
 


End file.
